


These Little Hits

by tonitrus



Series: High Stakes, Bad Luck [1]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bondverse, Clint Barton is fucking Deaf y'all, F/M, Gen, Matt is Irish as fuck, Natasha doesn't get paid enough to do this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:30:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonitrus/pseuds/tonitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is the Black Widow, favorite of the KGB, and she's working a case. When she discovers her target has an agenda of his own, things get just a little bit more complicated than she expects. Clint Barton is the CIA's Hawkeye, 007 to MI6, for good reason. He makes it his business to handle being watched as casually as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Little Hits

**Author's Note:**

> This is the introductory piece to my "High Stakes, Bad Luck" series! It's going to focus on introducing two of the main characters who will be most active from both of their perspectives, and if you want suggested listening, I advise you to check out this mix: 8tracks.com/gavelemoji/suggested-listening. Unsure of how many updates there are going to be, but I'll try to get up a chapter every four weeks or so.

A hotel in Tokyo no less extravagant than any other hotel in Tokyo. No less tall and no less full of various corrupt businessmen and women, politicians, and their current mistresses or secret boyfriends. Occasionally both. Of course, despite the despicable nature of every person in the room, none of them are 007’s targets today. No, this mission is purely casual recon. The clever Quartermaster (who is so Irish that his name may as well be a beacon for every whiskey producer in the area) was kind enough to give him enough bugs that this building needs a proper exterminator. 

All he has to do is sit among them as an undercover mogul and let the transmitter hidden delicately in his tie use him as a human radio tower. This is convenient for a few reasons. 

As someone who sees better from a distance, he can collect more information than a few random bits of data on a computer could. Little things, like preference of drink, reckless spending, even as much as a general idea of personality from the way they treat the service staff.

The other reason is the view of the bar. And the bartender. Both pique his interest in equal amounts, but for distinctly different reasons. The bar is interesting for the reasons all bars are interesting; the copious amounts of sinful beverages displayed in glass cases that are more expensive than the cuff links of the gangster on 007’s left. 

The bartender, however, a woman with red hair that shimmers like copper in the light and lipstick the color of blood, dark red and dangerous. Lips that are tugged into a smirk. Blue eyes, lighter than his own, powder blue versus his Brandeis, that have almost never left his area of the room. She’s watching him. He’s watching her. That is, after all, what people like them do. 

He’s decided that he’s quite tired of the odd mixture of eyefucking and challenge in their gazes. It’s high time for a drink with this old adversary. 007 stands and pardons himself from present company with a gracious smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a wink. His large hands straighten his coat and tie and his large size makes the crowd much like the Red Sea parting before him and closing behind him. 

Somewhere among the ocean of deplorable members of society he pulls the microphone from his lapel and crushes it between two fingers despite Q’s nagging in his hearing aid communicators. Q gives up with a lengthy monologue about how this could have been done without his “feckin’ Double-O getting full of himself and losing focus every other mission.” 007 covers a snicker by making a show of running fingers through his hair.

When he slides smoothly onto a seat purposefully two places away from where the redheaded woman is wiping a counter. She appears mildly annoyed that she has to move because he decided to be difficult. The first thing she says confirms that suspicion.

“Tell me,” she mumbles in a sultry Russian accent, leaning on the counter in a way that pushes her already impressive cleavage up to garner more of his attention. “What is a towheaded brat like you doing in a place like this?”

“Having a good time.”

“Are you really, or are you working, Mr...?”

“Barton,” a mild pause as he quirks his eyebrow. “Clint Barton. Though I assume you already knew that.”

“Clinton Francis Barton, also known as Double-O Seven, and yet again, Hawkeye. Formerly with the SHIELD division of the CIA. Agent of MI6, hmm? Senior Operative this early? They must be desperate to pull a circus act.” The glint in her eyes as she leans close enough to let her lips brush his ear implies he guessed correctly. He admits that he’s been nigh on obsessed with learning about this woman since their first encounter that left them both bleeding and tired, but every bit each other’s equal. “For a deaf man, you’re a pain in the ass.”

Those lips purse into a coy smile while she pulls away, as if she knew everything about him that there was to know already. Undeniably attractive, her confidence, makes her look poised like a cat. He covers his shock with the pull of his cell phone from the pocket of his trousers when it vibrates against his thigh, noting his pick up time with the poker face of a well-seasoned gambler who's got a losing hand every so often. 

` -- Tokyo International, Gate 8, 24 hours. -- `

More than enough time to play her little game. He’s texting the unknown number back when he begins to speak. 

“Demiboy, actually. Keep up, Miss Romanova, I’m ordering a drink next,” his gaze shifts from the screen to her face and he leans on his arm as if he was flirting. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t amused by the flash of shock in her eyes. Being underestimated is his specialty. 

“KGB’s infamous Black Widow. Also known as Natalia Alianovna Romanova. In recent years, Natasha Romanoff. The only one in your division left. Their best agent. For a ballerina, your record is absolutely terrifying.”

There’s a pause between them while they search the challenge in each other’s gaze. The flirtation is gone now that they’ve confirmed that neither of them has the upper hand, something that irritates Clint incessantly. 

“So,” he says, never being one to appreciate awkward silences. “two martinis. Vodka. Shaken, not stirred. I’m picky.”

"What you are is annoying."

Natasha drags her nails across the counter as she turns to mix the drinks. He takes this moment to really examine her figure. The constant accidental eye contact from before made him distinctly wary and thus less focused on that sort of thing. By the time she turns back with sinful concoction in hand, he’s made a reasonable conclusion about weapons and where on her body they are. Knives in the stereotypical strap on her thigh. She slides the glasses over. He slides one back.

“I’m not supposed to drink on the job.”

“Technically,” Clint counters, musing with a sip of his drink, “this isn’t your job.”

“You’re going to argue with _me_ on a technicality?”

“Yes!”


End file.
